


Whumptober2020 Deacon/X6-Edition

by kimbureh



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Angst, Buried Alive, Chronic Pain, Death Threats, Fluff and Angst, Gags, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Interrogation, Kidnapping, M/M, Power Play, Restraints, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:35:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 8,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26745991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimbureh/pseuds/kimbureh
Summary: so Atom will, a new X6/Deacon story will be posted for every day of October. Fingers crossed! Rating is set to mature cuz heck if I know what will happen. EDIT: more angsty or hurt/comfort instead of whumpt, guess that's how i roll!NOTE: each story takes place in a separate universe with different dynamics between X6 and Deacon, ranging from hostile to tender. Throughout the stories, X6 gets usually called "a shadow", Deacon is the spy/man
Relationships: Deacon/X6-88
Comments: 21
Kudos: 17





	1. No 1. LET’S HANG OUT SOMETIME Waking Up Restrained

The smell of sunlight through the window, tickling his nose, sleepily he wants to scratch that itch but can’t.  
_Oh shit._  
He remembers as soon as he sees his wrists tied to each corner of the bed with thick linens from the first aid kit. He lifts his head and sees his feet trapped in the same way.  
_Thorough bastard._  
If he knows the assassin in the least, he can’t be far away--

____

____

“Did you rest well?” A shadow steps out of the corner into the light, blocking it from the spy’s face.

“Um, lil’ bit stiff around the shoulders…” The spy smiles despite himself, pausing for a reaction that doesn’t happen. He has to play his cards mindfully but they’re all out of reach. “You know I’ve got an itch right in the middle of my beautiful face, so if you just could--” The breath slides right out of his lungs when the shadow noiselessly moves into his personal space. His very personal space tied up sprawled on a bed.

“I’m no judge of beauty, but there is _something_.” Oh a kingdom for some sunglasses shielding him from pale grey eyes that have no right to make the spy’s heart jump like they do. “Ah, I know.” The shadow unblinkingly speaks. “There’s still a glimmer of... defiance.”

“My momma always told me my pretty mug would only get me into trouble.”

With a click of his tongue the shadow turns to shut the curtain and open the door.

“You wouldn’t leave me here, would you?” There’s a sliver of… slight concern in the spy’s voice. “Where molerats would get me and I can’t possibly moisturize?”

It is not what the shadow wants to hear, of course it isn’t, if the spy ever held a hands of cards they’re all scattered on the floor by now. “Wait!” He curls his upper body as much as he can. “Your stealth is better, you’re the stealth master, and you completely caught me off guard like you said you would, is that what you want to hear?” It’s too dark to see but a trapped man just knows when his captor grins at him in satisfaction.

“No.”

“No?”

Still blinded from the sun a moment before, the spy only notices the shadow has moved once the mattress sinks in on his side.

“What else do you need me to say?”

Fabric rustling right next to him.

“You’ve talked yourself into this, now talk your way out.” The husky voice in the spy’s ear is scary and hot and sexy and thoroughly amused.

Slowly, shapes become discernable again and he gulps at the sight of his captor’s face hovering over him. “No, I’m done,” the spy squirms and tries to bury his face in his arm, with little success. “Open the curtains and untie me right now!”

As if a spell was lifted, the weight pressing down the mattress disappears almost simultaneously with brightness returning back to the room and the relief of unburdened wrists and ankles as the spy rubs them.

“That’s it?” The spy squints into the sun where he knows his shadow to be. “All it took was me asking?”

“You’re a fool and a liar, how else am I to teach you to give away your wants?”

An easy chuckle rolls off the spy’s chest along with his tension. “We can discuss your didactic methods some other time, but there’s one thing I need you to know…” He swings his legs off the bed and dives into the shadow’s space effortlessly. “It wasn’t dark enough to hide your blush, hot stuff.”


	2. No 2. IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY  Kidnapped

Another punch goes into his guts, almost throws up, the captured spy clings to his shadow on the ground, braces for the next blow that is bound to come. 

It’s dark and he shivers in his damp, moldy cell. They must be underground, or inside a factory, perhaps, or maybe it’s just a plain old apartment complex like any other, a constant chatter of various voices through the concrete walls.

When the lack of light is strong enough to make floor indiscernable from ceiling, the eye plays cruel tricks. In lack of details, the mind makes up shapes and forms, monsters trying to suffocate a frightened soul, but this spy is not afraid of Shadows.

They are his only hope.

His darkness tainted with stars, droning shapes threatening him with stark colors like a solar flare.

He always hated the sun.

In his dreams, he wades through endless plains of light, sinking into inviting calmness, warmth, protection. Every time he wakes with ringing ears.

One day he barely realizes he’s awake until he sinks into perfect stillness. The air enfolds him in such darkness, no sound could travel even if it tried.

He smiles.

He knows.

The absence of sensation denotes hope, for only Shadows follow noiselessly.


	3. No 3. MY WAY OR THE HIGHWAY Forced to their Knees (metaphorically)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which the prompt is interpreted very loosely

He has no clue how he does it. All perfection of technology comes together to make this Shadow stronger, smarter than all humans, but the spy’s skill remains inexplicable.

Spy and shadow cross the Commonwealth once. Taking a rest, the spy takes off his worn out sneakers and laughs “I’m gonna need new ones from the store!”, and the Shadow takes notice silently.  
Countless cruelties exist in the Commonwealth that aren’t satisfied with staying in the material world, they migrate into the spy’s mind to make their home. “Bloodbugs are the worst,” he says when the night shivers wake him without fault.  
Spy and shadow trade for stringy squirrel meat, a rare treat in treeless wastes of rotting forests. “Should’ve made stew, man I love stew.”  
The bogs seem to swallow them whole, the despair of every living creature trying to pass hanging in the moldy air. “I take this route once or twice a year, always the same, stretching on for days.” The spy says, looking at his worn out shoes.

Spy and shadow cross the Commonwealth. There are settlers curing radstag skins, the Shadow trades for supplies. “That leather will mend my soles, can you imagine the shoe shop closed?,” the spy jokes.  
Deep in the mildew riddled subway station, the spy runs into more material to haunt his sleep. Back on the surface, the Shadow treats his wounds and cures his shivers.  
The broth bubbling on the campfire brings age old logs to use and reinvigorates both man and shadow. “We should’ve done that earlier,” the spy carelessly remarks.  
They leave the bog behind and follow a path up to a lighthouse, find a lifeboat and, recklessly, on the shores of a new land the spy confesses, “I have never been to such a place.”

He has no clue how he does it. By definition, a shadow holds perfection, no need for caring, mending, nurture. Stronger, smarter, better than all beings, still, a shadow cast cannot exist alone.


	4. No 4. RUNNING OUT OF TIME Buried Alive

The legs of the tripod stool scratch over the concrete fool when he pulls it over to the workbench. Bulky metal pieces, bolts and soldering iron arranged on one side, intricate fiber optics and on the other. 

Inadequate material that needs to be improved with true quality. He reaches in his holster and examines the damage. Empty fusion cells roll to his feet, the capacitor is burned beyond repair, casing and trigger he doesn’t need anyway, it takes for tiny parts meticulously arranged on the table before he can remove the spotless crystal within.

Countless parts come together in his mind and he sets on his task without delay.

The smell of molten lead fills the air.

Steady energy supply takes priority over portability, the workbench gets tinted into a sickly shade of green when the emergency fusion core gets swiftly disconnected and rewired.

The Geiger counter on the workbench picking up pace.

He gets up and examines the wall. 4 inches if it’s lead, 1 foot or 2 if it’s encased in a steel layer, 3 feet if they cut costs and went with concrete.

With a flick of the switch, ozone intermingles with metallic vapors as the ray begins to cut through the dense material.

His mouth gets dry and he turns up the power.

Data from the test run extrapolates a progress of 0.4 inches per hour, unknown depth.

He takes off his coat and returns to the workbench.

Supercharging the fusion core increases efficiency by 3% at best, adding the pipboy to the circuit buys another 0.25% and its light goes out.

The first thing he notices after being robbed of his senses is painful light blasting his vision. Shapes lack all form, his limbs sink into the ground like molten lead. A trace of nicotine accompanies a soothing voice, “Welcome back.”


	5. No 5. WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU’RE GOING? On the Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> if things pan out, part 5-8 will belong together

The person on the horizon disappears behind a building, but there’s no doubt it’s him.   
Crossing the bridge over the river, his pace picks up.  
One hidden glimpse through a window, the sunglasses are a dead give away as is the nervous fumbling for a cigarette he reliably drops when his shadow flicks a pebble against the pane.  
Angle after angle, the route becomes erratic, hastily concealed tracks are not enough to shake this pursuer in the narrow streets of Boston Common.

As is the nature of things, a shadow is impossible to shake.

Beyond the city gates, the presence of people promises protection.  
Incorrect.  
It’s cute how the Railroad thinks Goodneighbor is a safe place. 

A pack of cigarettes is purchased as reward for an extraction done successfully, in an abandoned alley the smell of false security indicates the chance to strike.

A muffled yelp, dragging footsteps, and the alley is as it was before.


	6. No 6. PLEASE…. “Stop, please”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> part 5-10 or so belong together.  
> this part contains implied rape.

It is scalding daggers he expects piercing through his flesh, instead a hot tongue is forced into his mouth, the weight of a shadow pinning him to a wall. Their faces part long enough for the shadow to crumble the spy’s sunglasses in his gloved hand, leaning in, the shadow breathes a single word into his ear that makes the spy’s blood freeze on the spot. One simple word, sounding so fragile and weak, it’s set aflame by the stranger’s slightest whisper.  
_Deacon_  
He said,  
_Deacon,_ which means,  
_I know who you are and I am here to fuck you up_  
“Please,” the spy begs, “please don’t,” toned splinters of glass grate under black boots as the shadow makes good on his murmured promise.


	7. No 7. I’VE GOT YOU Enemy to Caretaker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> part 5-10 belong together

The bloodtrail is easy to follow, which the spy discovers with great interest, “They do bleed after all,” he thinks and steps into the shallow cave where a trembling Institute rifle aimed at his head is greeting him. The spy presents his empty hands, doesn’t wait for the shadow to lower his defenses before he steps close.  
“Guess they should make the next gen Deathclaw-proof,” the man says as he examines the mauled limb, “never understood why they tried to copy humans when humans are so fragile.”  
The shadow grows cold and hot under the rugged first aid the man supplies him with. “You know who I am.”  
“Of course I do. Biblically even, so to say.” The spy retorts bitterly. “Bite on this,” he offers a stained rag.  
Stitch by stitch by stitch, the spies takes his time, noting with amusement even Coursers require effort to not pass out from pain.  
When the spy is finished, he commends the bandage with a proud pat that yields him a groan caught off guard.  
“I can easily hurt you,” the writhing voice points out, “I already did…”  
“You’re a Courser, it’s in your nature.”  
Like a shadow forced onto a flight of stairs, he replies, “You know nothing about me.”


	8. No 8. WHERE DID EVERYBODY GO? Abandoned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> chapter 5-10 are loosely connected

Through alleys, forests, open plains, no terrain can stop a mind determined. Tracks obscured, sunshades glinting in the light, a smoky scent indicates the target line.

In a cold backroom that turns stuffy by the time they’re done, a forceful grip takes possession of what is his, only one word is hanging in the shadows, sweet and sinful.  
_Deacon,_  
the untold promise keeps them close,  
_Deacon,_  
a kiss, unbearable in all its meaning seals the shadow’s voice away to speak up on it’s own.  
“Don’t go.”  
The room regains it’s cold quality when metal binds the spy’s wrists.  
“Stay.” The shadow leans in for a farewell kiss on panicked lips before he turns to lock away his precious prey. “You’re safe here,” he promises outright, disbelieving eyes training to escape, then, as the the shadows leaves behind the man in darkness, he concedes, “I have work to do,” he says, “I can’t let you return to switchboard now.”


	9. No 9. FOR THE GREATER GOOD “Run!”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> part 5-10 belong together

He expected a lot of things.

He expected to see his friends pass the torch of a quick and gruesome end to the new blood, like generations so had done before;  
He expected to see their secret hideout exposed to the light and set aflame;  
He expected to see bright rays of the robotic hope for humanity last thing before torn apart, becoming part of mankind redefined bound to be dust glittering in morning light, just like everybody he had ever known.

He did not expect an enemy made of flesh and bones and haunting fears much like himself to become his shadow in the light.

“Run!” he heard the shadow bellow when flashes brought more polished automatons killing without passion. “I told you to not return!”

And so he runs, his friends scattering into the dark of safety, the night sky almost too beautiful to be inevitably tainted with the morning light.

He expected a lot of things, and forgot to look for hope.


	10. No 10. THEY LOOK SO PRETTY WHEN THEY BLEED Trail of Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> part 5-10 belong together

Another trail, so easily followed, like breadcrumbs leading out of the thicket. Down corridors of switchboard, through the hatch up outside into an crumbling building. Barely hidden behind furniture, weak weary eyes greet him, all means of defence shattered to the shadow’s feet.  
“Deacon.” It sounds like hoping for a promise.  
Dark red tints the floor tiles eagerly. “Don’t you say another word.”  
And so he doesn’t.  
No Courser is unbreakable. So fragile, modeled from man, he slips in and out of consciousness while he is stitched together. However, the crooked, desperate stitches from the old deathclaw wound did not withstand the institution’s urge to optimize its tools.  
Weak oh so weak and weary eyes study the rugged surface of his newly mauled, newly mended skin. The path to regain perfection is denied forever, but he finds an unexpected beauty in blood that has been spilled in order to protect.  
“My first scar to keep,” the shadow says with a smile before sliding back to dark.


	11. No 11. PSYCH 101 Defiance

“To think you call yourself a spy.” The shadow coaxes a gasp out of the man bound to a chair. “Laughable.”  
“Then why don’t you laugh?-” An impatient grip of a gloved hand interrupts to press the spy’s jaw while tense eyes examine the distorted face.  
“Say that again.”  
He can’t, of course, until a hard push releases him again. “Aw, and I thought I’d get a kiss.”  
A terrifying smile crosses the shadows lips before he slowly takes off his glove, admires its sturdy quality and grabs the bound man’s face again to force the leather into his mouth.  
“Say that again.”  
The man struggles to breathe, of course, this time no swift mercy to relieve him of the discomfort. Circling steps let the shadow disappear, nothing but stillness fills the room and the certainty he’s still lurking.  
Minutes pass, breathing struggling to turn slower. No matter how hard he’s trying, the shadow’s presence stays hidden in the dark. There, in the corner of his eyes, the spy believes he’s able to discern the familiar shape. He blinks and his vision turns all black from the shadow closing in, he groans and is surprised by his voice being freed only to be blocked again by lips forcing themselves onto his, the chair creaking under the shadow’s weight, spread legs blocking in the man. They part for air, the spy’s mouth agape, “do that again,” he says, and a warm hand gently grabs his chin to drag him closer.


	12. No 12. I THINK I’VE BROKEN SOMETHING Broken Bones

It was an ordinary misstep, quite literally, much to the misfortune of his right leg that articulated its disagreement with the situation in way of a deep dry snap when the mouldy planks under him had given in.  
With his favorite foot out of commission, walking is a sweet dream he can only hope to revel in later once he passes out from pain. If only he would. The adrenaline pumping in his veins has different plans for his startled mind and begins hearing ghouls scratching on the wall, bloodbugs buzzing in the hot and stuffy air, shadows taking shapes of friends then foes which almost makes him shoot into the void.  
Once his chest stops heaving erratically and his sense cease rushing him with apparitions, he notices the quietness sitting with him amidst this pile of rubble.  
Such familiar quietness he has felt before. It ran with him when they were forced out of hiding, it listened to the last words of his first partner, it caught a glimpse every time a the bright blue flash denoted the failure of a mission.  
Amongst the rubble is a shape outlined much darker than the surrounding shadows. Moving closer soundlessly, the spy harbors no doubt the source of stillness found him after all.  
It’s a Courser, towering over him like it was his nature, kneeling down, disarming him before weak hands can even twitch. The Courser, reaching into this dreadful quietness that accompanies all ends, the spy has no mind to choose his last words, he simply states the obvious, _I am dead_ , he means, but instead he says, “You’re the Courser.”  
The stillness stretches far between until a voice cuts through crystal clear, “I’m here to help.”


	13. No 13. BREATHE IN BREATHE OUT Chemical Pneumonia

Quintessentially, he knows exactly how it happened.

Standard recall mission, pre-war office building like any other, rows of offices picked clean by scavengers of anything valuable, at the end of the corridor, an unusually heavy door, fortified, security grade, behind it yet another desk, office chair, file cabinets, no windows. The moment this thought crosses his mind, the gate behind him closes with a thud, laser shots don’t make it budge the least, the sound of gas hissing into the room is accompanied by a shortness of breath along with a chest-hurting cough. With burning eyes, he tries to find-- _something_. His vision turns black then white before he wakes in a barren room, no desks, no chairs, no cabinets.  
Upon trying to get up, he notices three things at once. First, struggling to let air into his lungs, it feels like a weight was placed onto him, because, second, thick leather straps around his neck, chest, arms and legs are binding him on some sort of cot. Still gasping from the belts restricting his airflow, he attracts the attention of, third, a bald man in sunglasses who is lighting a cigarette.  
“I know it’s not good for my health,” he takes a drag with much gusto, “I just can’t help myself.” He sits down next to the cot, right out of field of vision given the restriction of the bound neck, exhaling pungent smoke that irritates already strained lungs. “You and I are going to have a nice long chat.”


	14. No 14. IS SOMETHING BURNING? Fire

“Don’t act like you didn’t know I’d do almost anything to piss on a top dog’s leg like a… uh, like a dog.”  
“You believe that can be achieved by a simple rumor?”  
“Never underestimate the power of a lie.” The spy smirks and takes his shadow down to the shores overcast by the massive Brotherhood mothership and its equally massive pretensions.  
The shadow observes his companion change his garment, tone, and character, different words each time sell the exact same story until an idea is slowly taking roots even in the most barren corners of the Commonwealth, the metal hull still looming over the sea.  
The season turns, the wind is shifting, labor never ends for the vendor of lies big and small, the Commonwealth year ‘round in the market for well woven stories, a storm begins to rock the vessel in the sky.  
“A few dark clouds won’t be enough to bring them down,” the shadows doubts, “mere raindrops even of great number cannot create the desired fire.”  
“Sodium,” the spy blurts out, “one speck of sodium will light the filled up keg, you’ll see.”  
The spectacle is unprecedented in the Commonwealth, perhaps in all of the post war world they believed they knew. When the steel blimp topples into the sea, it’s as if the water’s burning. Internal mistrust tore them apart, a million raindrops nurturing doubts in their command they feared had been replaced by enemies camouflaged as their own.   
Days later, man and shadow stroll about the beach, idly satisfied, the hull still smoking near the waterfront. “Who knew,” the spy meanders, “all it took was a simple rumor.”


	15. No 15. INTO THE UNKNOWN Possession

“Infodump time!” The spy flops down next to the shadow on the bench in front of a crumbling Red Rocket gas station. “Did you happen to know, my bestest acquaintance, that the Children of Atom ritually consume an intoxicating cocktail called Norrefill?”  
“No.”  
“One of it’s key ingredients is, ta-daah!” A bottle with blue contents is softly glowing in his hand. “A genuine Nuka Cola Quantum!”  
“Why are you telling me this?”  
“No reason.”  
They swing by the nearest settlement to rest before dusk takes them further on their journey. “Its origins are is long forgotten, but, fun fact, it was a slogan you could find on every paper cup around.”  
“What are you talking about?” The shadow halts in the middle of the dark road.  
“The cocktail of course, Norrefill. Do you get it?” A chipper reply and they resume their path.  
All humans display peculiar behaviors, this one even more than others. At dawn they take another break, the man taking time to adore the rare glow of the bottle before unpacking food. “You take rum, sugar, and a Glowing One’s blood, shake it up, and they say if you drink it, Mr Atom himself takes possession of you and speaks the gospel to his children!”  
“I hope we don’t run into ferals anytime soon.”  
A bellowing laugh, a prolonged glance as if the man had anything to add, instead they eat in silence and move along.  
“Another little known fact: with repeated possessions every Child gets closer to the fullfillment of their most deepestest desires.” Resting on a camp fire, the spy’s gaze is focused on the pot he’s stirring. “Which is funny given the name, y’know, Norrefill.” His dry laugh falls to the ground while his glance rises up to be caught by the shadow.  
“I don’t understand how this is relevant.”  
“It’s not.” The spy responds. “Care to drink with me?”  
“I’m not consuming foul blood.”  
“Fair enough! Sugar?”


	16. No 16. A TERRIBLE, HORRIBLE, NO GOOD, VERY BAD DAY Hallucinations

It takes him a while to take in his surroundings. He’s on a bed in a windowless room, it’s too hot, he tries to get up but weakness takes hold of him. So thirsty.  
He’s on a Railroad mission, the handler is about to escort the synth into safety when he drops dead on the floor, the church explodes and he’s running, running, running away leaving everything and everyone behind.  
Sweatpearls are running down his face, dripping into his eyes. He knows it was a dream. So thirsty. He knows he was a dream because he got away. The waking world wasn’t so merciful. Every time he tries to get up, someone’s grip is holding him in place.  
The next mission is recon only. A deserted place riddled with traps, he steps on a fieldmine. Burned flesh, torn leg. He gets away.  
Another dream. He didn’t get away, he knows, every time he tries to get up, it’s a Courser holding him in place. The Courser follows into his dreams.  
The darkness sticks around when he dreams of climbing up a rusty ladder, leading to lookout he’ll never reach. It’s there to witness the bullet entering his body, his leg gives in, he falls. It revels in the sound of his breaking bones upon meeting with the ground below. It’s there to watch him try to crawl away in desperation-- That’s when darkness struck.  
Upon waking, he cannot move. The Courser hovering like a hawk to strike its prey. The urge to run is overwhelming, but his limbs are failing to obey. Only in dreams he gets away.  
“Drink.” The Courser offers water that finally quenches his thirst.  
“It’s you,” he tries to touch the familiar face but fails, “I dreamed I was falling.”  
A cool hand on his forehead changes the wet rag, carefully examines the bandaged limbs. “You did.”


	17. No 17. I DID NOT SEE THAT COMING Wrongfully Accused

He never thought it would feel so satisfying to punch a Courser in the face. Full force, flawless execution, training with Glory is paying off. Not that it makes any difference now. Bruising his fist won’t bring back what he lost.  
“Now talk.” Coldness creeps into his voice. Beneath him, the shadow in irons is staying motionless, blood dripping from his worn out face. “You look like shit, man,” inadvertently he quotes the good doctor. “Maybe I will let you run if you tell me what I wanna know.” It doesn’t matter that he never wanted to give in again to his cold rage, it doesn’t matter that this Courser seems to be dying anyway. His conscience turned into dust along with all his hope, and plans, along with Desdemona’s admonitions to never cross a certain line.  
“You led them to our hideout.” There is no doubt. “It was you who slaughtered them.” He cocks his gun and shoves it under the lifeless shadow’s chin. “Talk.” A choked cough soils his hand.  
“Kill me already,” no Courser has ever begged before.  
“I will. Now talk.”  
There’s no answer, no defending, just the eyes of an almost-man embracing the inevitable.  
“Jesus Christ, X6, just tell me you did not betray me!” Scorching words replace the cold threat of the metal.  
“I’m all that’s left of the Institute. Take your revenge.”  
“It wasn’t you.”  
“I’ve done other things.”  
He skews the next punch, even Tinker Tom would laugh at him, his knuckles hurt more than they should. “Get up.” The irons lose their meaning. “If I’m not dead, you’ve got no right to be either.”


	18. No 18. PANIC! AT THE DISCO Panic Attacks

The spy first noticed it when passing by the new crater in the heart of the Commonwealth, a Brotherhood flag pretentiously hoisted up at its precipice. After midnight, he miraculously had acquired both a brand-new dishrag military grade, as well as a persistent presence following him wherever he went.  
It wasn’t that the spy never had to shake a tail before. It simply was that a shadow wasn’t something you can shake. Neither did he feel the need to do, since a companion that helps one out of every pickle but never asks for food or ammo or the top bunk in a bunk bed was quite preferable. But a shadow he remained, and the spy wished he could shake his paranoia by getting to see the stranger’s face just once.  
Weeks after, he felt the shadow’s presence fading out whenever he travelled past a certain building, the highest one in all the Commonwealth. Against all his better judgement, he gave in and this time it was him who tailed the shadow up up up the skyscraper that had persisted gravity over centuries.  
He did not expect what he found up there. A Courser, doubtlessly, perched on the roof’s edge. All the spy’s instincts told him to commit the necessary cruelty on the last remnant of a Mankind Redefined. But his instincts also told him a shadow wasn’t something you can kill.  
He knew the shadow’s gaze was consumed by the abyss in the distance carved deep into the Commonwealth, still he asked. “Something to see?”  
It was like the shadow contemplated a decision.  
“You stuck up there?” Regrettably, the spy took a step closer to the verge. “You’re like a cat.” He chuckled just to fill the wind with noise other than bottomless regret, the shadow startled like he had never heard a sound before. “I know you’re scared of heights as much as me, we both have no business being up here.” He offered a hand hardly more steady than the shadow’s. “Don’t you agree?”


	19. No 19. BROKEN HEARTS Mourning Loved One

He never got to say goodbye. It was the last day of autumn, the sun was golden, the harvest finally came in, and the sky stood so high he dared to hope. Their cabin leaning on a withered pine tree trunk, the roof still leaking no matter how much reed and tar they put there, the bushes of hubflower beginning to crawl up the rain gutter he installed to collect water for the garden while she watched him closely to make sure he did not squish the purple blooms.   
He found her with her life spilled on the soil they worked so hard to create their living on. It was this day of autumn he touched her dark hair, drained her cheek in his tears and swore revenge.  
“You’re spacing out.”  
The shadow by his side calls out to him once more before his surroundings snap back into focus; kneeling on the ground, a seedling in his hands, planting a new garden. He unbends and pats off the dry soil darkening his hands.  
“There’s a bush in full bloom next to the porch,” the shadow says handing him a pair of scissors.  
And so he goes and trims the shrub, the sharp metal leaves a cut that smears the cup waiting on its common spot on the dresser in the living room. “You would like him,” he says while arranging the purple bouquet, “he waters the flowers in the garden.”


	20. No 20. TOTO, I HAVE A FEELING WE’RE NOT IN KANSAS ANYMORE Lost

“This should not be here.” The spy mumbles and the shadow turns to look at him. “There shouldn't be this slope and those trees, definitely not that car impaled by a lantern.”  
“How do you mean?”  
“I mean, we’re lost. Or at least, I am. Dunno about you but I figure the Institute never sent you this far away from home port.”  
The shadow’s frown turns as dark as the clouds hanging low in the horizon.  
“Lemme think, maybe I can trace back where we took the wrong turn.”  
“There’s no time for that, we need to find shelter.”  
Like on cue, a rumble echoes through the sky. They find a path that leads them to a pre-war building.  
“Oh, I’d know that donut diner anywhere! What the heck is that doing here?”  
With the first raindrops tinting the concrete black, they make it through the door, no other habitants seem to be about.  
“Say, you didn’t pick up some teleportation skills yourself during your time with the Institute?”  
The rain patters on the roof and the shadow lifts a gorgeous, judgemental eyebrow. Empty shelves and crowded floors with junk don’t hold anything for them to occupy their time, or so it seems, until a practiced handgrip of the spy reveals a hidden compartment beneath the register. Inside, it’s filled up to the brim with small pink boxes.  
“You’re not lost.” The shadow’s expression turns bright involuntary.  
“Nope.” Quickly, the first candies are unboxed, shared sitting in a breakfast nook while rain keeps pouring down outside. “How else would you let me indulge you?”


	21. No 21. I DON’T FEEL SO WELL Chronic Pain

Every step he took across the Commonwealth reminded the shadow of his origins, the Institute had made sure of that. His greatest flaw bestowed to him, his human sensitivities, turned out to be very much intentional design. Ever since the betrayal of his makers, every step the shadow took filled him with agony. The chip buried deep inside his brain made sure of that.  
Some days, their parting gift forced him down to his knees. Most days, it didn’t.  
“They underestimate the durability of their own creation,” the shadow explained to his companion who was begging to consider his very human vulnerabilities, “I can endure,” he said, “Doesn’t mean you should,” was the reply.  
They walked on through the Commonwealth, the shadow silently in envy of the synths they saved who had been designed without the flaw of relentless punishment for treason.  
On his worst days, the Institute demanded more than kneeling as a price to pay.  
A caring hand offered a remedy that put the sentence on hiatus for a while.  
“Still,” the shadow said without reluctance, “I’d choose this again.”  
These words must have meant a lot to his companion, for rarely did he touch his hand as gentle as he did.


	22. No 22. DO THESE TACOS TASTE FUNNY TO YOU? Drugged

Scavenging pre-war chemical facilities comes always with a certain thrill. Sometimes you find forgotten wonder cures, some other times you find nothing but plain old laughing gas. Then other times, unwelcome surprises happen.  
With utter haste, the shadow screws shut the hissing canister leak through which his spy companion had just inhaled a good lung full of an unknown chemical. The involuntary test subject turns limp, “like a slug on legs!”, and continues giggling on their way out.  
“How are you?”  
“I’m fine!” The spy cheers without sarcasm.  
“That doesn’t sound like you.”  
With true concern, the shadow offers his help. “I don’t know what to do, but I will try a few things,” he patiently explains as his nose gets booped by this giggling mess, “please evaluate as to how effective they are.” He pats the spy’s bare head, then takes his hand, since that is what he saw parents do with children. The awkwardness produces more giggles, the childish role willingly embraced by the test subject.  
“Up! Up!” He begs while bended by his laughter, until his wish fulfills. Arms tightly wrap around him to lift the shadow’s companion up, and for a brief moment it is quiet before more giggles incessantly emerge.  
“This seems to be ineffective, your heart rate is accelerating.”  
“I’ll be the judge of that. Again!”  
Up and down he goes, the spy continues to cling on to his shadow. Slowly, calmness settles in, the steady hold turns into a fond embrace.  
“I think you might have a cure-all on your hands, literally! I’ll make room in my schedule for a daily snuggle sesh, preventively, so to speak, you on board?”  
“Seems like the drug's effects have passed.”  
“Oh, long ago,” the spy replies with an averted gaze, “I’d say I’m sorry for lying, but-” His heartbeat picks up pace again.  
“I’ll clear my schedule.”


	23. No 23. WHAT’S A WHUMPEE GOTTA DO TO GET SOME SLEEP AROUND HERE? Exhaustion

A dripping pipe on the wall right next to his head is about to blow his fuse. Drip drip drip, that small wet patch on the concrete speaks to him in a language echoing through the forgotten sewers of the city. Drip drip drip there is no way ending it if the shadow wants to remain in the shadows and find out where the raiders he has been hunting for weeks hide the synth hostages. ‘Merchandise’, is what they call them, and only for that, they deserve to die, but not yet, not yet-  
Patience is what adorns all great stalking predators, he hears them close the deal and open a hatch, one two three synths revealed, none are missing, and the dripping stops. When things are done, he escorts his brethren to a safehouse, craving quiet and rest himself, but a different place draws him like metal to a magnet.  
An overgrown gate, hardly visible, leads underground, of course, trip wires and a bear trap that wasn’t there before make him smile, the inner door opens with a deliberate groan.  
“It’s me,” he says into the dark and lets his coat slide from his shoulders. Carefully feeling for the softness of the bedding, he is greeted by warm arms drawing him into an embrace like a magnet.


	24. No 24. YOU’RE NOT MAKING ANY SENSE Forced Mutism

“Oh, tying me to a chair, very classic interrogation style.”  
Unwavering hands check the binding rope with care.  
“You just need a blending office light to go full film noir.”  
There’s no rush when the shadow examines his work, skillful knots keep the spy’s arms crossed behind his back, just uncomfortable enough to give him a light stiffness in his neck later, tight circles join the calves with the chair legs, forcing the person of interest to sit with legs spread slightly.  
“So, what’s it gonna be, trying to pull off a one man good-cop-bad-cop routine, or are you gonna…”  
There’s no rush when the shadow finds the last piece to finish off his work and is pleased to see his prisoner accept his fate quickly once the gag fits in place.   
“Hm,” the shadow idly muses, “I can see now why you are fond of games like this.”  
There’s weak protest and the shadow leans in closer as if for listening. “Ah. Say that again, I didn’t catch it.”  
Frustrated noises intensify once the shadow sits down to straddle the distraught spy. It only takes a light tip under the chin to willingly expose the throat, the adam’s apple bops up and down once the shadow’s tongue wets it, and weak protest groans before dying down when bare teeth tug on sensitive skin. Another light tip on the chin reveals the spy’s petrified expression.   
“As much as I appreciate the quiet, you can put that mouth to better use,” he calmly says and removes the blockade, demanding a deep kiss in return.  
Once they break, the spy chuckles meek. “You are getting too good at this, can’t stand being roasted.”  
“Oh, you can,” the shadow adjusts his seat, “Confess.”


	25. No 25. I THINK I’LL JUST COLLAPSE RIGHT HERE, THANKS Ringing Ears

A spy is supposed to blend in, be it in crowds of people or in the darkness of a back alley. But that’s not all there is to it. When situations suddenly turn from cold to hot, a protective shadow materializes out of thin air and steps in between spy and enemies, instead of blending in his body’s language orders “Step back”, it demands “I’ll do it” and is always, always returning hunched or limping out of the fray.  
“You don’t have to do that time and again,” the spy would scold. No matter; turning from a mere shadow on the wall into a solid wall himself is what his body was built for after all.  
One day, the shadow steps up again, his shape commanding his companion to retreat, too late, there is no time to react when he spots the grenade hurled at them. After the shock of the explosion he finds his companion to be well, lively enough to yell something he cannot hear.   
Gravely wounded, the shadow confined to bed still insists on being cast in front of the man instead of following behind. “Please, just let me be there for you,” the spy begs when nursing him. Never before did the shadow realize he denies his companion what he claims solely for himself.  
Once his wounds are healed, he carries his body differently. “Please be there for me too,” are his silent words as the shadow walks beside the man.


	26. No 26. IF YOU THOUGHT THE HEAD TRAUMA WAS BAD… Migraine

For the past two days, the spy hasn’t spoken a single word. He would gesture at the water bottle out of reach, he would whimper at the light intruding their cabin whenever the shadow would try to leave for supplies. Usually the quiet and the shadow are friends, but this time all he craves are words cutting through the painful silence. There seems to be nothing he can do, most food and drink are denied by the man sleeping an exhausting sleep when not occupied with retching and restless rolling within the sheets. One moment a soft touch or backrub seem to help the patient to relax, the next moment the sensation seems to torture him.  
Two days and the shadow didn’t dare to sleep, unfamiliar with the sudden dependency of his companion. A few times he tries to come up with encouraging words, anything to say that might alleviate the spy’s despair. He is looking for encouraging words to chase away the void which was usually the spy’s to fill. When the man has fallen into yet another restless sleep, clutching a caring hand for comfort, the shadow is reminded of his own body’s limits by a deep slumber.  
He awakes to dim light now welcomed back into the room, the shape on the bed no longer limp, a sweet and sour smell in the air.  
“Sorry that I wake you with this stink,” the man apologetically presents the mason jar in his hands, “but I was craving pickles with maple syrup. Gross, I know.”  
A smile revives the tired features of the shadow.  
“Oh, you wanna try?”  
“Absolutely not.”


	27. No 27. OK, WHO HAD NATURAL DISASTERS ON THEIR 2020 BINGO CARD?  Extreme Weather

A heavy rad storm rolling in forces them into a wooden shack by the road. The cold makes them both shiver, they have no choice but to sit this one out, the leaky roof rattling in the gust.  
The shadow takes a long look around the inside of their makeshift shelter. Like everything on the surface, it’s ugly, broken, and so far behind the advancements of the place he once called home. In one word: inadequate.  
“Let’s play a game!” The man speaks up, “To get warm.”  
The shadow looks interested despite himself.  
“Do you know about clapping games?”  
“I am not a ten year old human child.”  
“No, you are a ten year old adult synth, or something, I am guessing here, but the point is you’ve got two good hands for clapping and nothing better to do.”  
Faced with this indisputable fact, the clapping commences.  
Clap, clap, right to left, clap, left to right, clap clap, backhand, palm, on and on, hardly a challenging sequence of motions, the storm raging storm outside pushes rain through the flimsy planks that pass as walls up here on the surface world.  
“Let’s try another one.”  
“Why are you teaching me this nonsense?”  
“Gotta educate you in fine culture.”  
Dissatisfied with the answer, the shadow begins to roam the cramped cabin. Mold growing in the corner, disgusting stains on the carpet, noise, so much noise, the rolling thunder, hammering rain, and no place to flee from the forces of nature ever again. “What’s even the point of this.”  
“Comfort,” the man snaps the shadow out of his bleak thoughts, “and companionship, mainly. The clapping games.”  
Down in the Institute, the environment used to be sanitized, calm, and organized. He used to believe that’s all the comfort he needed. Back then, things had a purpose, _he_ had a purpose.  
Clap, clap, right to left, clap, left to right, clap clap, backhand, palm.  
“By the way, I am a twelve year old adult synth courser.”  
“Thanks, now I feel like a creep.”  
Clap, clap, right to left, clap, left to right, clap clap, backhand, palm, again & faster.  
“You warm yet, adult synth man?”  
“More than I expected to be. Bet I can go faster than you.”  
“You’re on!”


	28. No 28. SUCH WOW. MANY NORMAL. VERY OOPS. Hunting Season

It had been weeks ago since the spy had first encountered one of them. What he thought might as well have been his last living hour robbed his breath every time he saw a shadow ever since.  
Nobody sees a Coursers and lives, but he does, and so he flees into the city in an attempt to shake the hold he feels around his neck. He sits down at the noodle stand and orders, the market’s buzzing seems benign enough in the afternoon sun. Another guest takes a seat beside him and orders with a voice that makes the spy forget to breathe.  
The shadow he should not have survived seeing sits shoulder to shoulder next to him. It’s broad daylight, neither of them can cause a scene without drawing the heavily armed guard’s attention.  
“You’re not here to finish your job, otherwise you would’ve done so nights ago.”  
They touch when the shadow shrugs noncommittal.  
“What do you want then?”  
“I’m already getting exactly what I want,” the shadow stands, leaving his cup of noodles behind untouched. “You should know, hunting season is never over.”  
It’s like the market’s chattering turns into distorted static and the periphery of his vision blacks out as the shadow pats the man’s shoulder when he leaves.  
He is fucked, and how fucked exactly the spy learns one day and one sleepless night later when he’s sitting outside the Dugout’s Inn, sensing the shadow tugging on the figurative collar around his neck. His breath turns tense when out of a side alley the shadowy presence seems to appear out of nothing and invades his personal space joining him on the bench close enough to make his warmth tangible as well as his acute intent.  
“Not much of a sport, hunting a leashed dog I’d say.”  
“I enjoy where your thoughts are wandering.”  
It’s the last thing they say before the man gives in to the desires pulling him along. The room they rent at the inn is small and dusty, and entirely irrelevant. Bite marks soon distinguish prey from hunter, as if the difference wasn’t already obvious enough. The prey’s flight reflex is overridden the moment he gets pinned onto the bed, presenting himself to be devoured alive as if the hunter needed such invitation.  
“I’ll give you two days of a head start,” the all consuming shadow regains his sharp outline shortly after.  
“Why are you doing this?” The non-existent, persistent chokehold on his neck loosens enough for the man to breathe.  
“I want to see how much of a sport hunting a leashed dog can be.”


	29. No 29. I THINK I NEED A DOCTOR Reluctant Bedrest

Hunting is the same, no matter who sends you on the hunt. There is no difference between hunting rogue synths and hunting synths who refuse to go rogue. That’s what the shadow believes when he and his spy companion set out to kill their first Courser.

“Was there someone you were close with in the Institute?” The spy had once asked, the shadow answered with his silence.

It takes them weeks to track down the Courser. Weak and wounded from the fight for survival in this strange world on the surface, he wears his tattered uniform proudly still, as deadly a force as ever. There is this familiar grace in both their movements once they fight, Courser against Courser, and when he sees the glint in his opponent’s eyes it’s as if the shadow never had to go rogue. It’s not pain but injury that forces the shadow to his knees, the Courser closing in, a softness in his voice that asks “Why?”, and when the shadow senses his companion line up a shot, he finds strength to force his legs to stand again and takes the bullet meant for the Courser who vanishes into the dark.

A cough wakes him to agony, a transfusion by the bed, his companion smoking on a chair close by. “Sorry.” The cigarette butt is grinded out and flicked away. “Do you have anything to say to me?”  
Trying to sit up, the extent of his injuries dawn on the confined shadow. There is no point in apologizing for his reflexes, and so he doesn’t.  
“Very well then,” the spy gets up to leave, “I have a job to do.”  
“You won’t be able to track him down,” a weak hand grabs the spy by his wrist, “he’s one of our best.”  
“One of _‘your’_ best?”

Coursers don’t die so easily, it’s in their DNA, rogue or not. Up on a building, unnoticed by the common eye behind metal junk and planks, the shadow spots the crow’s nest he is looking for. He’s aware he’s being watched as he climbs to the top, keeping his distance once near the lookout.  
“I heard you finished the job.” There’s no edge to the shadow’s voice. “You once asked me if there was someone I was close with in the Institute.” He drops his tattered weapon and his guard. “The answer is no.”


	30. No 30. NOW WHERE DID THAT COME FROM? Internal Organ Injury

Things go how they do sometimes, and when shadow and spy find themselves in the middle of an exploding church that makes all their foes perish in one infernal blow, it soon gets obvious they themselves weren’t that lucky either.  
There is not much blood, for a piece of debris stuck in the spy’s side keeps most of it inside his body. It’s a shiny metal rod, the spy notices in his adrenaline induced rush that prevents him yet from passing out from pain, this rod, is in all actuality, a pipe of the church’s organ, pointy-side in stuck in his heathen body. "Hey,” he sees shadowy savior rushing, “I think I have..........internal organ damage........"  
“I’ve got you.” Is the last thing he can hear before he wakes up lying on a cot sans pipe but avec bandaged side and a direct hook to his shadow by his side.  
“A blood transfusion…?” He trails out.  
“Don’t worry. Many of us have bloodtype 0, for convenience reasons.”  
Deacon looks slightly troubled by the implication.  
“Don’t concern yourself with such things.”  
“Thank you. And I’m sorry. The organ joke was lame.”  
“Such admission is like… music to my ears.”  
“...organ music?”


	31. No 31. TODAY’S SPECIAL: TORTURE Whipped (metaphorically, maybe)

Travelling with his shadow feels like torture.  
When resting, the shadow’s presence looms menacing over his surroundings. When striding on, his back still covered in the uniform seems like an all absorbing void. When following behind, inaudible treads infallibly strike dread into the spy.

They make a good team, on equal footing in their stealth skill, the spy makes up the shadow’s raw physical prowess with his talent for deception. Sometimes, when they’re sitting at the campfire the spy wonders if they have already saved more synths than companions had to fall at his shadow’s very own hands. He wonders if it matters and how his own murders factor into the equation.  
Usually, talks between them are curt and utilitarian. Few words are needed between two men living and murdering as two sides of the same coin for the longest time. Sometimes, the spy wishes there were meaningful words left to say, but there aren’t, and silence among them grows.  
At some point, all synths are saved, or that’s at least what they need to believe. The synth by the spy’s side, however, doesn’t leave, doesn’t flee the Commonwealth. Unlike his siblings who all bear the scars telling about their struggle, his wounds remain invisible.   
Travelling with his shadow feels like a burden he can’t escape.  
Whatever he might need to heal, the spy is unwilling to give, nothing ahead but the vast wasteland and many silences to fill with grief. In his dreams live images of his lost colleagues, doomed to death but unwilling to die. Sometimes when they’re resting in a safehouse the spy wonders if the shadow killed all of them, if he killed just some, wonders if it matters after the things they’ve done.

Travelling with his shadow feels like a punishment. When he mends his dark coat that threatens to fall apart, when he spots sweet cakes in a shop, when he cooks them bean cans over fire, the shadow’s humanity becomes so irritatingly apparent despite the spy’s bitter craving to put and end to it.  
He waits for the shadow’s laser gun to be scattered on the floor for maintenance to draw this pistol on the last unsaved synth who has given up salvation long ago.  
“Any last words?”  
“My life is yours.”  
No matter how far they walked, the silences they shared, the presumed good they attempted to achieve, never before did the spy realize the coin showed heads on both its sides.  
Travelling together feels like torture now, and for all shared eternity to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S DONE


End file.
